Proving a Point
by TriedItAtHome
Summary: "I bet you twenty bucks you wouldn't kiss a boy," Racetrack had said, and I'd laughed in his face. "Funny you would say that, considering I'm gay." He thought I was joking. "Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it, Romeo." He's right there, and so the first time I ever kiss Specs is to prove a point. Specs/Romeo. (Not quite as good as my last one, actually, but it's still pretty okay.)


**Proving a Point**

The first time I ever kiss him is to prove a point.

He's pretty startled - which may be the understatement of the year - when I hook my fingers in the collar of his worn buttondown shirt and drag him down to me, crashing our lips together.

"_I bet you twenty bucks you wouldn't kiss a boy," Racetrack had said, and I'd laughed in his face._

"_Funny you would say that, considering I'm gay."_

_He thought I was joking. "Yeah, I'll believe it when I see it, Romeo."_

Our noses mash against each other those first few seconds, and he's too confused to move so I do the moving for him. I tilt my head to the side and open my mouth a little and trace his lips with my tongue, but he really doesn't do anything. His glasses, I notice, are slipping down the bridge of his nose and the rims are cold against my cheeks.

_He was just walking right there, right alongside Davey while Katherine Plumber waved at them from the library's double doors. The three of them were the last kids in the building besides us; Davey and Specs being the bookworms the were, most likely checking out a stack of books each for the summer while Katherine, the librarian's assistant, was probably still taking inventory or something and had stopped to tell them to tell Jack to come and pick her up when they saw him. That's always the way it is, how it always has been, at the end of every school year and a lot of the days leading up to it._

_Everybody else had long since packed up their lockers and gone, eager to leave this wretched place for the next three months of humidity, heat, thunderstorms and doing nothing but lying around, pretending that there's nothing else to care about for a short while. But of course Specs would be stocking up on books while he still could. No doubt he'd finish them all within the first month._

_And as he walked right by us, just as Race and Albert and Finch and Dutchy and Smalls and I were having our little conversation and Race made his bet, it just seemed like exactly the right thing to do._

"_Hey, guys -"_

_And then I was kissing him. Kissing Specs._

I hear wolf whistles and that's when I pull away. He's still processing, apparently, and so I push him gently so he's standing upright once more - _has he always been that tall?_ - and shove his glasses back up his nose for him - _has he always looked that adorable when he's so totally confused?_ - and I wink - _I think that was a subtle one, was it subtle? _- and then I turn back to the rest of the guys.

"That prove it?"

Race pulls his wallet from his back pocket with a very signature smirk on his face. He doesn't break eye contact with me as he hands me a crisp new twenty.

"That proves it."

He doesn't say anything else, but there's this look in his eyes as he continues to smirk, hitches his bag up higher on his shoulder and walks away with the rest of the them, leaving me alone with Davey and Specs - this look in his eyes that tells me he's leaving me here on purpose and that I could follow if I wanted but I really, really shouldn't. There's this look in his eyes like "I know something's going to happen here and I'll have a pool started with all the guys, every single one of them, before I've even walked out this door, that's how fast I can text".

I force a grin as I turn to look at the two who remain, still standing pretty much dumbfounded. Davey's the first to speak, awkwardly clearing his throat first:

"What- What did that prove?"

"That I'm gay. Race bet I wouldn't kiss a guy and I told him I would cause I'm gay but he didn't believe me, so thanks for saving me, Specs. Otherwise it would have been Finch - he was closest." I give an over exaggerated shudder at the thought of _kissing _Finch.

His face is slowly turning strawberry, then tomato, then cherry red and I feel a little bad to have embarrassed him so badly in front of everybody but hey, it's totally worth it for how adorable he looks in the aftermath.

"Y-you're, uh, you're welcome?"

It's a little bit of a squeak, and the undeniable question mark at the end makes it just so much cuter.

I smile a little wider and give him a curt nod, then one to Davey, turn and walk as casually as I possibly can until I'm out of sight, then sprint as fast as I possibly can to my little old beat up car. I don't get in. I grip the handle so hard I think I hear a little crunch - it's a really old car - and I lean my head on the frame just above my window. I press myself against the hunk of metal and its peeling paint, warmed by this summer sun that's been beating down on it all day.

That was stupid. Kissing Specs? What was I thinking? So what if it was just to prove a point? He must hate me now and I'm pretty sure he will even more so when Race starts spreading rumor after rumor and opening pool after pool… why'd I have to go and make a fool out of both of us?

But what really bothers - bothers? Yes, bothers - me is that it started off as something small, that kiss, something I was just using to finally win one of Race's bets for once and score an extra twenty bucks, but then it turned into something else and I actually _liked it_ and _wanted more _and I'm not supposed to be thinking that about _Specs_ of all people, am I?

And I just stand there with my eyes squeezed shut until I see stars and colors and shapes floating around and I've got a plan.

It's probably a stupid plan, if it can even be called a plan. It's more an idea, something that might work but most likely won't and will just succeed in making me appear more of a fool, but that's never stopped me before, has it?

# # #

The tradition started when we were seven, and my sister learned how to drive. She and I had always been close, the most connected of our siblings, and so when she finally had the freedom to go to Starbucks whenever she wanted, she always took me with her. She started picking Specs and I up after school and she would drive us to Starbucks and we would play cards and drink hot chocolate while she did her homework and gave us little sips of coffee that I now recognize was so sweet it didn't count as coffee anymore. Every day after school, she took us, every day until she went to college.

Then we got our parents to take us for a few years until we learned how to drive, too, and could get ourselves there on our own. Every day after school.

And even after our fight, I know Specs still comes here every day at the same time, still gets the same drink he's always gotten since forever. He's always been a stickler for traditions - "Every one," he used to say, "has a special meaning. If you start one you can't just let it go, you've got to keep it up because otherwise it doesn't mean anything anymore. Each tradition you have is like a little piece of you, ya know, that shows what you love and who you are to everybody else." I used to laugh and tell him it sounded rather poetic, and he'd always flush and mumble about it, and I'd always feel bad afterwards because I loved it when he said things like that.

So I park in the moderately busy but not completely full Starbucks, stride in and order not one, but two drinks. Both to-go.

I wait at a spot just outside the front doors and when he walks up onto the patio and sees me sitting there, feet propped up on the table next to two coffee cups, he turns red all over again. I try not to smirk and, for once, succeed, and I grin a grin so wide it almost hurts.

"You expecting somebody?"

He approaches slowly, clutching the book he's brought to his stomach as though it'll shield him from all the evils in the world.

Anything smart I might have prepared to say makes a mad dash for the glowing exit sign of my brain.

"I, uh… I bought you coffee. Well, it's not coffee it's hot chocolate and you should have _seen _the look that lady gave me when I asked for _hot chocolate_ in the _summer _but anyways it's got whipped cream and cinnamon and everything cause I know you used to like that you still drink it don't you?"

"You're rambling."

And that soft smile that's just a little bit toothy he gives me that I've missed so much reassures me and his fingers brushing mine when he takes the beverage I've extended towards him encourages me.

"I know. I do that. I'm sorry. I…" _I have no idea what to do now, I honestly haven't thought this far ahead. _"I didn't think this far ahead."

He laughs a little when he replies, "What?"

I sigh. "I don't know. I came here and bought you coffee and I didn't think about what to do after that. Guess I'll just have to improvise, huh?"

He studies me. He tilts his head and his eyes flash back and forth between both of mine. I feel like I want to shrink and melt under his gaze at the same time, like I'm under a microscope and like I'm the one he loves most in this whole wide world and it's probably the most confusing thing that's ever happened to me.

If I had had a plan that went beyond me guying him coffee, how this is going would _not _be according to it.

"Let's go to the park," he finally says, and I don't get a chance to respond because he's turned on his heel and is marching off to the main road. When I don't follow immediately, he looks over his shoulder and says "You coming?" and it seems I have no choice.

Which, actually, is a perfectly okay thing.

There's kids all over the playground, ranging from ages four to sixteen, but nobody we know. Parents are strewn about, some standing and watching their kids, others sitting and reading books or newspapers or their phones. There're at least ten kids in the great big climbing tree in the corner, the giant oak that's twisted and mangled and has plenty of thick, sturdy branches that remain so all the way from the very bottom to the very top so that anybody can climb all the way up the twenty or so feet if they chose to.

A little ways away from all that, there's a grassy hill without any park benches or structures or paths. Just a hill with grass and clover patches, honey bees flying harmlessly and aimlessly from clover flower to clover flower. Nobody else is on this hill, and so that's where Specs leads me.

He sits down about halfway up, cross-legged, and motions for me to do the same. I lie down next to him instead, my head right next to his thigh and one arm angled so my hand rests beneath my head, my other hand wrapped around my iced coffee and balancing it on my stomach.

"Why'd you take me here?"

I see him shrug as I stare up at the sky spotted with clouds, trying absently to decide if that one's a bunny or a dog.

"It's a nice place. And we used to love it here when we were kids."

I "hmm" in agreement, and glance at the book resting on his lap.

"What'cha readin'?" Because I really don't want to talk about our kiss or about our fight or anything really, I just want to sit here and be right next to him and pretend like everything's normal again.

"_The Princess Bride_."

I lift my head up off my hand and look at him, but he's staring straight ahead at the playground and the tree and the park benches, sipping his hot chocolate.

"There's a _book_ of that?"

He snorts and nearly chokes, and I continue to look at him but he focuses on his coffee.

"Yes, Romeo, there's a book. What do you think the movie was based off of?"

I lie my head down once again. Yeah, that's definitely a bunny. No dog has a tail that short. Except for Rottweilers. And Dobermans.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you reading it? It seems a little… elementary for you."

I see him shrug again. "It's an old favorite."

I wait for a minute, a long, silent minute, before saying,

"Read it to me."

He snorts again, and I think he really needs to stop drinking his coffee if he's going to be so surprised at every little thing I say.

"What?"

"I would like for you to read to me this book that I never knew existed. Please?"

The 'please' does it, I think, because he (slowly, cautiously, like it's a joke) opens the cover and flips through the numerous copyright and title pages until he reaches the beginning, takes a deep breath and begins to read.

"'The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a French scullery maid named Annette. Annette worked in Paris...'"

I had forgotten how he sounds when he reads, it's been so long. His voice is a little different, as though he might be spinning a story of his own mind. Every word matters to him, and so he pronounces every one with special care, unlike when he speaks regularly. He reads not too quickly and too slowly, but at just the right pace. He puts such inflection into his words that you can hear every character's voice, every second meaning to a line, every thought that might be going through a character's head. There is nothing that is not perfect about the way that Specs reads a book aloud. He could make an almanac intriguing.

We must sit there for an hour or more, him just reading to me as the sun slowly, slowly sinks lower in the sky. A few kids have been dragged away from the park by their parents, the ones who have to get their kids to baseball or dance rehearsal or who insist on eating supper too early in the day for my liking. But most still remain and even a few new people have found their way to join in to the chaos.

We are still the only ones on the hill, which is just the way I want it to stay. It feels so good to lie here in the sun and hear the shouts from the kids a little ways away, enough so that I can pretend it's the equivalent of an ocean between us and anybody else. Nobody can bother us. We're just on our own again, enjoying each other's company, and nothing can possibly go wrong.

He's stopped reading.

I don't notice at first, it takes me a minute, but when I do I snap my eyes open and turn my head a bit to look at him and he's staring right back.

"Why'd we ever fight?"

I stare at him for a second more, then sit up and place my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. My empty coffee cups falls to the ground, and I feel him pick it up and set it out of the way. I also feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck but now it's _me_ refusing to look at _him_.

"It was stupid. It was _two years ago_, Romeo. Something that small shouldn't have messed us up as much as it did."

"Yes, but the fact remains that it _did_ mess us up as much as it did, no matter how small it was to begin with. And because of what _I _said we can't ever really go back to being how we were."

I hear him close the book.

"Both of us said things. It's not all your fault."

"But part of it's my fault and that's good enough to blame myself for it because I miss you, Specs!"

"I miss you, too, but-"

"No, you don't get it!" I shout and peek through my fingers at the park beyond them. Nobody's heard, but I lower my voice speak softer anyways. "I miss you so much it hurts. Actual, physical pain, like a little stitch in my side. I couldn't even look at you for whole year because I felt so guilty about everything…"

I'm not crying. My throat feels like it's closing in on itself and I can't really breath all too well - really shaky and filled with soft hiccups - and my eyes burn where my fingertips press into them and burst red into my blackened vision. But I'm not crying.

First his hand just gently touches my back, almost just hovering over. He presses it more firmly against the thin and grass-stained fabric, then slides it up to my shoulder. He moves forward, pulls himself right up next to me and puts his other arm under my knees and turns me around so my legs are slung over his, I'm leaned forward and sideways to rest against his chest.

That's when I start crying.

Just a few tears at first, like a leaky pipe, and then some dam somewhere bursts and I'm sobbing into his shirt, wrapping my arms around his waist as best I can and holding onto him tight, because I know he'll be gone just as soon as I let go.

He puts his chin on the top of my head, then buries his face in my hair.

"You still use the same shampoo as always."

I laugh bitterly through my tears and racking sobs.

"That's all you can… think to say?"

I feel him shake his head no. "I could think up a lot of other things to say. Like you're stupid for blaming our fight all on you. I had plenty to do with it, too. But you're stubborn and you don't want to hear it so I thought I'd tell you about your shampoo."

"You're… terrible, Specs."

"I know."

He lets me cry, and I eventually stop. As far as I can tell nobody has really noticed us much, over in that faraway land of the park and the climbing tree, and most everybody is gone now. I still cling to Specs when I've finished crying, though, and I note with suppressed glee that he makes no move to let go of me, either.

"I'm sorry."

He sighs in exasperation. "Romeo, we just went over this. There's nothing you have to be sorry about."

"No, you said that I couldn't take all the blame, you never said I couldn't be sorry."

"Well, that are you sorry for, then?"

"For kissing you. I'm sorry. It was stupid, I shouldn't've, and now we're here in a park and I've gone and gotten your whole shirt all snotty."

Even with his chin now back to resting on my head I can still feel his smile. I so badly want to see it but I also never want to move.

"That's alright. I don't mind." He hugs me a little tighter and I snuggle further into his chest. "I really missed you, too," he finally says, with every intention of finishing what he'd started to say earlier. "I kept trying to catch your attention after that fight but you just ignored me. Which was fine, you had every reason to. I really wanted you back, but I didn't want things to go back to the way they used to be."

"You're confusing me. Quit confusing me, Specs, I don't like to be confused."

"Okay, calm down, I'll get there." He stops and just breaths before continuing. It feels nice, his chest rising and falling against my side. "Okay, it's not that I _didn't_ want things to go back to normal it's that I _couldn't_ because I think somewhere along the way I fell in love with you and then we fought and for some stupid reason that makes no sense at all I just kept falling in love with you all over again every time you ignored me or wouldn't look at me or talk to me."

I pull away from him, finally, though we both still keep our arms around each other. I have to tilt my head up too far for my liking to look at his eyes.

I smile.

"I love it when you say things like that."

"Like what?"

"All poetic. It's cute."

He kisses me first this time. This isn't sloppy and rushed. It's slow and sweet and blocks out the few kids left on the playground, the rusty squeaking of swing hinges, the buzz of honey bees flitting around us. We keep it that way - slow and sweet - because this is how it's supposed to be between the two of us. Nothing more and nothing less. Just us, just this, together again but in a much, much better way.

"It was first published in 1973."

"What was?" he says distractedly as he presses a soft line of kisses from the corner of my mouth along my jawline.

"_The Princess Bride_. It was written by William Goldman, well, the 1973 version was. But Goldman talks about an older version written by S. Morgenstern that his father read that to him when he was sick with pneumonia. He went to the library and found it again when he was forty years old and read it for himself and realized that his father had only read him the good parts. So then he wrote down the story his father had told him and got it published in 1973 and called it his 'Good Parts of The Princess Bride.' Except for Morgenstern's version doesn't exist and that's all just his commentary."

He pulls all the way back, once again, and smiles, then frowns, then he's left with something in between.

"You've already read it. You knew there was a book," he states like it's the most wondrous and confusing thing he's heard in all his life.

I nod to the book, forgotten at his side, close to my feet. "You got that copy last year when your old one got dropped in a bathtub. My sister gave it to you."

"Yeah, for Christmas."

"Nuh-uh. I knew you really loved that book and I found a copy with the old cover art on it and addressed it from my sister because I couldn't possibly give it to you myself. Pretty wimpy, huh? And I know it's not your old copy, it was special to you, but I thought this was better than -"

"That's the sweetest thing anyone's done for me in forever."

"No, it's not. I addressed it from my sister. It doesn't even count."

"It didn't count then but now I _know _that it's from you and I love it even more. But why did you learn so much about this one tiny book? It's not much more than two-hundred pages and you probably know more about than the author does."

"I was just trying to deserve you," I say quietly, in the smallest voice I've ever used. I think it's stupid and he thinks it's stupid and he tells me so.

"That's stupid. You don't need to do anything to deserve me. If anything, I'd have to memorize a thousand books to deserve _you_. I love you. I hope that's all you need to hear to know that. You're so special. There's nobody else like you, you don't need to do anything to deserve anybody, especially me. You're so special, and I love you. Did I already say that?"

"Are you mocking me, now?"

"Just a little bit. I can go on, though."

"Never stop."

He does stop, though, but it's only because he kisses me and I kiss him back and he's far too occupied to say much of anything.

# # #

We show up together on Race's doorstep the next day, holding hands, and he starts texting pictures before I've even asked him for another twenty bucks, because it's such a better way to prove just how gay I really am, if he still had any doubts after that first kiss in the hallway.

But all the kisses after that, they're not just to prove a point anymore.


End file.
